


you and i breathe so slow; how strange the sound

by Lizzen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Maximoff family feels, Robosexual, Smut, density control play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Vision wonders if he is friend, father, or lover in this moment. Considers that it is his own choice as well, if he is brave enough to make it. Post-Captain America: Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i breathe so slow; how strange the sound

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to a&c&m

When they meet again in Wakanda, her eyes light up as if they are friends, perhaps more than that. 

(He's still fixing a glitch in his system since he was last paired off against her. She's not stronger than the gem that fuels him but—)

"Vision," she says, half shy and then her arms encircle him, her human skin warm against his. Her face is pressed against his shoulder, and he feels the wetness of her tears on his crimson skin. 

His heart may be synthetic but it beats faster when she's near, when she's close, so close.

*  
She leads him by hand to her room. It's a guest room she's been living in for months now; the sterility of it somewhat tempered by her tastes. It's not like she's planned to live here long, but it's safe. For now.

(There are pictures and pictures and pictures of Pietro; it's half shrine, half memorial. It makes him slightly uncomfortable, slightly honored; as if this place is sacred for her and her alone.)

Wanda easily pushes him on her bed to sit, and she plops down beside him, clinging to his hand, and talking all the while of how she's been, what she's learned, how she's missed him.

How sorry she is to have hurt him. She repeats it more than necessary. 

Her fingers pick at his sweater as if she's nervous and he realizes then that he is, he's nervous as if terrified. She closed the door behind her earlier, but she did not lock it. She couldn't bar him from leaving (she could, oh, and in so many ways).

She's closer now, almost hugging him with his arm wrapped in hers, her cheek against his shoulder. So familiar; his gauges for human behavior slide off the scale. 

She was this familiar with the brother; but she's not like this with others. He must—, she must— 

The Vision wonders if he is friend, father, or lover in this moment. Considers that it is his own choice as well, if he is brave enough to make it. 

And he thinks, rather resolutely, that in this moment he is in love with her.

The gem that powers him pulses with indecision. Love is not logical. He wasn't built for this, he was built to protect, not love. He wasn't made to feel anything but a kindness for humanity. To have it singularly focused, to have the feeling be amplified; oh, he can't quite comprehend it. 

What would his makers, any of them, oh what would they think if he took this young girl. And would he care if they found him disappointing? Foolish? Even, broken? He is still uncertain about external judgement, especially after his mistake on the tarmac. His actions fueled by feeling can impact others and not always in a positive manner. 

But this is not a life and death decision, he thinks. And there are multiple alternatives before him; many of them very pleasant. All with consequences. 

How easy it would be to lean in and press his cool synthetic lips against her warm human ones. Would she sigh into the kiss and wrap her arms around him?

Or would she shrink back, irritated or fearful? 

Her lips brush his shoulder. "You're miles away," she says. "Come back to me." And he shakes his head. He is right here, and he is paralyzed by the decision tree. His brain is calculating the options, the opportunities, and the optimal balance of relationship and desire. 

(Will he feel pleasure if he presses himself inside her? Is he made to feel like, like that? Will she? Does she want him, such a creature as he is?)

She's watching him, her eyes look frighteningly wise. Her gaze consumes him and he feels a fire burning in his belly, which is nonsensical but true, so true. 

"I've missed you." It's the first thing he's said since she brought him here, here to her safe place. 

Her face brightens into the prettiest smile he's ever seen, and it's all he wants to see for as long as the gem allows him life. 

"I've—" she starts and then lets out a breath, her smile never ceasing. "I'm so glad you're here."

Her hand is on his arm, she's repositioning herself, and he's afraid, afraid of what—. Afraid of what could happen. 

"Don't freak out, okay?" she says softly. 

"Wanda," he says, "I—" and she's kissing him. Her mouth open and soft, little tentative presses against his lips. 

It's not that he breathes, not really, but he sucks in air like he's been holding his breath and the choice is to kiss, to kiss, to kiss her mouth back and not care if she finds him strange. 

It takes him a moment to register that she's moved, she's straddled him on the bed with her legs tight around him and her mouth is- 

Her mouth is saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", and she repeats again. She's got his cape clutched in one hand. "Am I, is this too much? I don't mean to—"

"Wanda, you're not—" and he searches for the right word. "You're not forcing me." 

Sadness shadows her face, and she touches his face with her fingers. He does not register any hint of scarlet in his periphery. "But, you see, I could."

The Vision opens his mouth and then closes before pretty and empty statements could be said. "Yes," he says. "And _yes_ —" Analysis of human behavior would recommend otherwise but he kisses her now, wonders inanely if he could kiss away her sadness and doubt and guilt.

It takes her a moment to return the kiss, to tighten her grip around his hips and to begin to push against him, searching for purchase.

His eyes blink as he considers all the options before him; the rapid fire processing of all potential configurations of intimacy. He wonders what she imagines or hopes for, if she had considered this before today. His skin feels slightly electric. 

"What can I—" he starts before she finishes his sentence with a kiss, dirtier than before and he tries desperately to keep up with her, sucking on her lips and tongue and trying not to clash against her teeth. She shrugs off her sweater and moves so that she can pull off her dress, toss them over onto the floor. Smiling just a little, she rids herself of her bra too. He's more than a little overwhelmed at the expanse of flesh and the curve of her breasts.

So, she explores him, slowly and thoroughly, asking him to phase out of clothing as she reaches a new part of him. His left arm, his right leg, his neck and shoulders, his chest, his right arm and left leg. Her cheeks are only slightly scarlet when she touches his sex. He phases out of that last bit of clothing and is not ashamed of what she sees. He's, well, no one can really categorize what he is and she knows that. Knows that whatever she finds on him, other than the gem, is a synthetic version of man. 

"Mmm," she says appreciatively and it sends a little shiver through him. 

He's been shy to this point, but there's a courage that fills him now. She's not fled the room, she's not pushed him away. She's not told him they're rushing into something premature. 

What she is doing is this: she's kissing his neck, tongue and lips between synthetic skin and vibranium, and he can sense that her body is going through a gradual shift of neutral to aroused. And he's the cause.

Fear of rejection shifts to fear of disappointment. Desire is a new emotion for him to contemplate, but this is not the time for reflection.

He's got Wanda on her back in a moment, feeling her skin with the gentle brush of his fingers and marveling at how warm she is. Oh, he would just hold her like this, press his skin against hers and rest in this intimate embrace, but there is an expectation to fulfill. 

Between JARVIS' extensive memory banks, the ghost of Ultron, and what knowledge he has from the gem, the Vision is fully aware of how to pleasure a woman. There is a difference, of course, between dutifully following a storied protocol and doing so with the ferocity of emotion riddling through him; a veritable domino effect when she touches his skin and smiles up at him and her eyes speak danger. 

This woman, he thinks, this woman is everything. 

Sweet kisses turn to gentle teases, which turn to purposeful touches. He asks permission before dipping his head low to taste her. She's groaning her consent, soon to ride his mouth in the pursuit of her own desire. It's – It's unexpectedly delightful. His hands are like vises on her thighs, keeping her legs propped open, and he is not the kind of lover who slows down, tires out.

Frankly, he could do this, this specifically, all night. 

And the first time he makes her come, he seriously considers it. Why mix it up when she can find completion so prettily with his mouth between her legs?

Technique he learns with experience, listening to her sigh and concentrating on how her most secret places move as a result of his attentions to her. There's a measured order to it, equations racing through his head; and there is a deeply human quality of random chaos and irrepressible cravings.

She's writhing against him again, and illogical thoughts race through him again. He wants her, he wants to be closer. Wants to be inside of her if he can, if she allows it. 

Wanda puts out her hand, presses it against his face, and sighs out something "no"-shaped and he stops, kisses her thighs, and lets her rest. It's been quite something, bringing her constant, almost sustainable pleasure. 

Pride is an emotion to reflect on. A sort of satisfaction reverberates throughout him. And if he smiles, he can't really help it. 

She's weak, he can tell from touch and gaze and simple analysis and he wonders if she'll dismiss him to sleep. "Vis," she says, her voice a rasp. "I want to—" and she can't finish the sentence. Her cheeks grow from pink to pinker and he finds her, as ever, the most beautiful creature he's ever beheld.

"What do you want?" he asks, willing to acquiesce to any request. 

She pulls at him, pulls him close so that they're flush against each other. He kisses her lips, again, and it's different now. Sweeter, almost. She kisses him as if she can't stop kissing him, her mouth warm and wet. "Never leave me," she says in the space between a kiss, in the space before she breathes in air. And his fealty is set. 

(Stark had sent him away, had sent him as a good will effort, had sent him to build bridges. Stark had sent the wrong man for the job.)

Her fingers find his sex, heavy and hard as it is, and he shivers in the night. She tugs at it briefly before a gentle caress followed by a careful stare. 

The Vision wants her, wants her hands to stay where they are, and he wants them to move so that he can push inside her. He wants to have her in so many ways, so many fashions. He wants to look into her eyes when she comes. Oh, he wants so many things. But his gaze is as neutral as he can make it. This is her choice, her decision. 

She bites her lip, her fingers running up and down his shaft with care. And then, she's moving, adjusting, refiguring so that his sex is pressed against hers. 

"We're going to do this, together," she says, with the smallest touch of fear, enough to make him try to pull away, but then, she's pulled herself onto him and he's lost, he's lost in her. 

She groans out, "Oh, we're going to do this _a lot_."

It's one thing to dutifully follow a storied protocol. It's another to have one's dick hard and deep inside this strange and wonderful girl. 

This is no time to pay attention to the details, or to measure and weigh each movement and sigh, or to consider the ramifications, or to just enjoy the sweetness of the act. 

No, this is the time to find the perfect rhythm and continue it till she crashes again. And then keep moving. 

She shudders beneath him, not quite able to form intelligible words, but encouraging him on with the buck of her hips and the arch of her back. When she comes, the fluttering of her sensitive skin against his solidity is remarkable and he wishes to prolong it, keep her coming longer if only to feel the heat of her as she clenches again and again against him.

Her eyes are wide, wild, and her breath is ragged. "Okay," she says, and he can tell that she's steadying herself. "Again. But I want you to—." She stops. 

He watches her breathe herself calm. 

She gives him a steely sort of look. "I want you to try something." And her eyebrow raises just enough. 

"Ahem," is the dumbest thing that has ever escaped his mouth. He stares at her, calculating the options and the risks. 

For, after all. His body changes in density. 

"Well," he says and pulses three times. She laughs, something between hysterics and true delight, and one of her hands finds his to clench it tight, a comfort. "I want you to try _harder_ than that," she says with a dark look in his eyes. 

The Vision doesn't sweat, but he would in this moment if he could.

He's still hilt deep inside her, and he shifts shape, just slightly, just enough to notice and her eyes roll back. "Please," she says helpfully. He considers the danger, considers the distinction of being someone who can bring her pleasure in completely new ways. And he phases, a little rougher this time. 

His name is on her lips and her fingers are clutching at her sheets. 

He grows inside of her, just slightly, just enough. With his accurate analysis of her most sensitive spot's location, he can reform in such a fashion, and pulsate in such a way that her pleasure builds faster than before. "Harder," she demands and he does exactly as told. He's a blunt instrument inside of her but perfectly formed for her needs. 

He's not quite sure of the catalyst, but there is scarlet in his periphery now, lines of scarlet covering him, binding him close to her. 

He's strange, but she's strange too. 

She cries out now, an inhuman yell of unrelenting bliss as she pulses him back in the tight, fierce bursts of her orgasm. 

And then, something happens.

See, the Vision knows, oh he knows, that he can't exactly come. Not like a man does. That's not what he was created for. He doesn't have any expectation other than enjoyment of her pleasure and his resulting satisfaction. 

But what he experiences is like this: energy pools in the apex of the gem (and what he doesn't know is that this is the _mind gem_ ; one of the infinity gems, an ancient and galactic force) and he sees stars. Not in a beautiful metaphor sort of way; not the tiny sparks of light one sees as the eyes seal shut. He sees literal stars as his eyes open wide and everything disappears but the feeling and the bright beacons of light surrounding him from light years away. 

It's overwhelming, terrifying, and glorious, and her name is a prayer on his lips. 

Reality gradually returns in a gentle haze as scarlet wisps around him with gentle, feather-like touches. She touches his face, runs her fingers along his gem, and then over his lips. She's breathing short shallow breaths. Her binding spell flexes just a smidge, pushing him close, close enough to kiss. 

"I saw it too," she breathes into his lips. And he's consumed by the sweetness of her mouth and the irrevocability of love for this woman. 

Her power retreats and he follows suit, phasing back. She makes a little girlish sound as he pulls out of her and they smile at each other. "You were—," she starts and then looks dazed and sleepy. "That was good," she says and her hand encircles his wrist. 

There are a few hundred words that he could use to describe what just happened. Humans are funny that way, he thinks. _Good_ , he thinks.

"And it's good that you're here." She looks like she could say more but her cheeks pink instead. 

Affection swells inside him, filling him fit to burst. So he kisses her. Or at least tries. She's all closed lips and a serious expression. "For more reasons than just this," she says. 

Here's the thing about loyalty. Stark can posture all he wants, but the Vision knows now that a logical argument can sway him to any side, any political ideal (as long as it supports, at its core, humanity). Yes, good, but then there is Wanda's fond gaze and the sweet turn of her smile. There's the warmth of her skin. There are all the words unspoken and how he feels within the synthetic fibers of his being. Loyalty to a cause is nothing compared with what he is feeling in this moment. 

He trusts Wanda's judgement. She is and always will be for Rogers. That's good enough for him. 

A blanket is retrieved and placed around her and he phases back into some semblance of clothing. He wants with all the rough edges of his heart to stay with her after, after it's been so nice. The tactile touch, just being in the presence of another is seductive to him. 

Intimacy, he is learning, is addictive. 

"I should—" he starts. 

Her hand tight on his wrist. "You should stay."

"I should stay," he responds, feeling at home for the first time in his very short life.

*  
He's there when she wakes, blinking into the Wakanda sunrise. Her eyes light up as if they're lovers, perhaps more than that. 

(He's still reflecting on every single moment of their time together, confused by the frenzy and honored by the privilege. Terrified and energized at the opportunity of future entanglement.)

"Vision," she says, half shy and then her arms encircle him, her human skin warm against him. "If only every morning could be like this," she whispers into his crimson skin. 

His heart may be synthetic but it beats faster when she's near, when she's close, so close.

#


End file.
